“Is this water or silicone based lube?” Mike questioned from the bed.
I stared back at him from the bathroom sink. “Um, silicone.”
“Oh, well I thought you couldn’t use silicone lube with silicone toys, something about it messing up the toy’s surface.” Mike responded quizzically.
“Oh, Fuck. I don’t know.”
I pulled the string of pale purple anal beads from the sink of warm water and pinched them slightly.
“Pretty sure they’re just rubber.”
My relationship with Mike grew out of a shared interest in spirituality, whatever the fuck that really means. I was searching for a way out of my vapid sorority saturated college experience and he was available, ready and willing to lure me into one of the strangest relationships I’ll ever know. So, what began as a bond formed over hot coffee and discussions of The Secret, turned into a weirdly fulfilling sexual conquest and bout of experimentation. It’s also what led to my ability to give one hell of a blowjob. I can say that with confidence because I probably gave the kid over 200 blowjobs. I was also taking tips from Sasha Grey videos. He unfortunately, ate pussy like a real amateur. No finesse whatsoever. He treated the whole ordeal like a medical procedure, nerve-racking and tedious. Nothing worse than revealing in a state of post orgasmic bliss and seeing your significant other’s face pull away from your pussy in twisted confusion and fear.
Despite the excessive exchange of oral sex, our sex-ationship held an experimental element that resembled a Masters and Johnson type affair. Our sex had purpose, outside of meaning and intimacy, which it was virtually devoid of. We were pioneers on a sexual frontier conquesting through the use of sex toys, amateur YouTube videos and shared fantasies. Originally, it was all his idea. One night early on, he pulled out a drawstring bag from beneath his bed as I was reading a compilation of Buddhist fables. Without speaking he dumped the contents onto the bed, smiling coyly like some perverted Santa Claus delivering gifts on Christmas. Strewn across the red sheets lay brightly colored cock rings, anal beads, Velcro handcuffs, strange squishy blue dice with words that read “suck” or “pinch” or “kiss”, and a shiny egg-shaped vibrator. “My bag of toys, for you.” He remarked, playing even more into the perverted Santa Claus role. Truthfully though, I loved them all. Each toy brought on a new challenge. I became obsessed, in a way, with the excitement it provided. I felt empowered.
I certainly had my own sexual interest too. They developed mostly out of watching consecutive episodes of True Blood. Something about the erotic subordination of humans during vampire sex that caused me to raise an eyebrow with investigatory excitement. The way this translated in the bedroom was far less fantastical. It involved Mike choking me during intercourse to act out the domineering role of a hollow hearted and sex driven Bill Compton. Most of our fantasies played out that way, providing fleeting enjoyment that fell short due to lack of intimacy.
The relationship will always be memorable despite its lack of meaning. In its aftermath, it helped with many things. It led me to finally buy my own vibrator: fitted with ten pulsating speeds and a waterproof technology that really made bathing a worthwhile endeavor. I grew to know what I like; where, when and how. It made me comfortable to have sex with myself and ask subsequent partners to partake in what I most enjoyed. While the sex-ationship was doomed to collapse but in a serendipitous and realistic way, it’s moments were fun and exciting albeit also deeply embarrassing.
“Ok, well either way, rubber or silicone, bring them over here.” Mike responded decidedly.
“So the video said that if I put them in before I eat you out and then sloooowly pull them out as you’re coming, it will intensify your orgasm or something.”
“Will do.” I replied laying my head back onto the pillow, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. “Here we go,” I thought. The process itself was mediocre, as it usually was. A combination of inconsistent tongue flicks and infantile sucking that seemed more like a series of muscle spasms than anything else. Eventually though, through the powers of pelvic muscle tightening and nipple stimulation, I began to reach my plateau. I bore down into the bed, arched the small of my back and exclaimed hurriedly, “Ok, I’m about to come.”
As the rush of feeling flowed through my lower half, I barely noticed the gentle motion of beads being pulled slowly from within my ass. And then … shit. Literally. I didn’t really smell or see anything but it became evident that female ejaculate was not the only fluid I secreted at that particular moment. Mike pulled away with force but surprisingly his expression was less exasperated then it was after most instances of pussy-eating. He rushed to the bathroom, beads in hand and quickly threw them into the sink. I laid there, paralyzed, and not in the post orgasmic way I usually enjoyed. “Did I just shit on the bed?” I thought to myself in a moment of sheer panic. I sat up suddenly and looked down. Nothing there. Thank god. The last thing I needed in that moment was to resemble a puppy caught in the act of soiling the Persian rug in the living room. Suddenly Mike reappeared.
“Well, I’ve got to go to work.”
“That didn’t turn out very well did it?”
He smiled. “Could have been better.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Might want to let those soak for a little while.”
I smiled back meekly, feeling my cheeks redden like I was in a Charlie Brown cartoon.
After he headed out, I drudgingly walked into the bathroom. Still unaware of whether I had excreted shit on the beads, I tossed them into the trash. They really didn’t intensify my orgasm anyway.
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